


Clipped Wings, Folded Tight

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Series: I Suffer(ed) From The Birdcage Syndrome [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bad Touch Chancellor, Beating, Blood, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, MT!Prompto, Objectification, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Pre-Pieces, descriptions of injuries, servitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: 01987 meets the Chancellor Of Niflheim, who adopts him as his Personal MT Bodyguard, among...other things.A prequel to "Put The Pieces Back Right".





	Clipped Wings, Folded Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the demo version of the song "Birdcage Syndrome", by Ryan and Leigh.
> 
> HOLY HELL and I almost forgot to mention that the aMAZING invisibledeity beta'd and edited this for me. Go check out his stuff, then come back here and read this. >:]

Reflex and conditioning dictate you use your arms to break your fall to the floor. When the frigid metal makes contact with your bruised limbs, you don't cry out, but you do groan a little. Your mind clouds as the pain flashes through you and settles around your elbows.

Someone kicks your ribcage, also bruised and aching. You bite down on another groan as a voice cuts through the fog in your mind, saying, "Get up, 01987."

You comply.

You wrestle your arms out from under you and place your palms flat on the floor to push yourself up. By the time you're in a kneeling position, the fog is back, and the man standing above you has to kick you again to get you standing.

When you're back up, you see your sparring partner standing to attention across from you. It sports bruises and drying blood of its own but is otherwise unruffled, even down to its hair. Your trainer, standing between you, didn't have to kick it back to its feet, because it's been standing the whole time.

You put your feet together and clasp your hands behind your back, hoping that showing the proper respect, even when injured, will impress the Emperor in your audience today.

The trainer gives you a side-eye look and makes a few marks on the clipboard he has, precise and calculated movements.

"Dismissed," he says, glancing up at you.

There's an ache in your chest, not stemming from any of your injuries you've obtained from this fight. You know what this means; more sparring, more training, less recharging time. Possibly reevaluation, or worse, decommissioning, but you decide not to think about that, as it will only worsen the tremble in your body. You hear another unit from your contingent be called to take your place in the match as you pass by the glass viewing room at the end of the training chamber, where the Emperor and his advisors are sitting.

You vaguely notice one of the spectators is missing as you enter the tiled shower room.

The spray is icy and cold as it rains down on you, and it's a godssend. Red and black and gray, previously dried, are sent in streams across your body as the water ushers it all into the grimy drain beneath your feet. It doesn't remove the pain, not entirely, but it dulls it for a little while. The cold is numbing, like the substance you're sometimes given while undergoing injections or repairs. However, the shower automatically turns off all too soon, and you must walk into the changing area, a small towel in hand.

You're greeted with an unusual sight; despite how many other units you saw with you in the shower room, no one is in the changing area. You suppose it's an irrelevant observation as you walk to the locker containing your uniform.

As you touch the knob of the locker door, the fluorescent lights above you flicker, for a moment. You wonder if something's happened in the training hall as you pull out the stack of clothing.

The lights flicker one more time when a hand touches your shoulder. You smother your instinct to flinch as the hand turns you in place, to see its owner.

"Ah."

The human attached to the hand has a self-satisfied look on his face, framed by waves of hair that look too much like your own blood. A light goes off in the back of your head, and you think,  _ah, this was the one missing from the Emperor's retinue._

He moves his right hand towards you, and you close your eyes in expectation of the inevitable blow, but it doesn't come. Instead, this blood-haired man curls his pointer finger and brings it under your chin so he can tilt your head up. The touch is feather light, so much so that your eyes open again from sheer shock.

"Fascinating," he says, his studious eyes tracing paths on your face. There's a curl to his lips, something mischievous, as he says, "Besithia tells me you're one of the originals. Is this true?"

Besithia—you know him. He's the one who oversees almost everything you do, but is primarily present for injections and alterations to your body. Thinking about the question, you're not sure what the whole truth is, but you think you've heard that fact mentioned before.

You nod, sharp and quick.

"Fascinating," the blood-haired man repeats. You grip your uniform tighter to your bare chest as he takes a step backwards to survey the rest of your body. The finger under your chin is gone, and for a precious second you admit to yourself that you miss the gentle touch.

His eyes run over your whole form, thoroughly appreciative.

"I'll have to give him my compliments," he says finally, lifts the hat on his head a little, and walks out of the changing area with a swish of dark fabric.

This is the first time you meet Chancellor Izunia.

******

The next meeting comes on the worst day of your existence, thus far.

The blows you feel to your abdomen are sharp and dull at the same time, one after the other, in a never-ending barrage. They rain, and rain, and rain, and you can do nothing but curl up and accept your punishment.

You failed the test. You failed it so _unthinkably_ hard, you have the sword slice across the chest to prove it. It lazily oozes a mixture of black and red, but you can no longer feel it trickling as you're beaten.

This is your fault. If only you were faster like your trainers and commanders wanted you to be, if you were any good with a melee weapon, if you were like every other unit you know, you wouldn't have to feel this.

There have been units in your contingent who failed tests and lost matches, too. After one too many, they were removed and replaced by your superiors. Through your pain-induced haze you can't help but worsen your nausea, thinking you may be the next to be taken and never seen again.

"Enough," a voice echoes somewhere above you. "Take it to its cot."

All at once, the beating stops, and you can almost breathe again. Before you've realized what's happening, you're being lifted by your arms and dragged across the metal training floor. You blink, and suddenly you're roughly deposited on the cot you charge in.

Then, there's blissful silence.

Your body throbs with your heart, filling your ears with the sound of war drums, but that's okay. Your vision is being overtaken, the blur at the edges slowly creeping in and making everything look unreal, but that's okay too. You breathe in broken, shuddering breaths, and your body protests every time you move even a centimeter on the cot. At least you're alone. At least you have this time before you're taken away forever. At least it's quiet.

Your eyes slowly close, and as they do, a hand touches your face. You jerk away, unable to suppress the flinch. The touch is icy cold but soft, contrasting with every other sensation pressing down on you.

When you see the blood-haired man, bent over and quietly stroking your face, you breathe a shaky sigh. There's not much else you have left to fail at and disobey, so you cut your losses and speak to him.

"Are you," you start, your voice croaking and unfamiliar sounding, "...to...take me?"

"To decommissioning?" he asks, in a tone that matches the care of his movements. "Not at all."

He sits on the cot, by your legs, and it sags desperately under his weight.

"This will not do," is all he says, and moves his hand into your hair, no doubt the color of his by now. He plays with the tips, and you think you lean into the touch. Everything's still hazy and it's hard to tell. Your eyes slip closed again, and the touches continue, breathtaking and light.

When you open your eyes, you find you have a dizzying headache, and an empty space beside you.

To your surprise, you haven't been taken away yet. All the other cots in the room are filled with recharging units, but no superior officer or trainer is anywhere to be found. This could be like any other recharging session, except it makes no sense that you're still here. You would try to stay awake, to make sense of it all, to see if you're experiencing some sort of glitch in the systems buried in your body. You would try, but the headache makes it so you can't keep your eyes open for long, and soon you're recharging like the other units in the room.

  
******

"You're being reassigned."

The words are the opposite of what you prepared yourself to hear.

The human officer continues: "Come with me."

So you do.

You follow the officer out of your unit's dormitory, and into the labyrinth of metal hallways just outside. Your injuries from the punishment you endured the day previous still hurt; as you walk, the bruises on your limbs scream out in protest, and you distinctly feel the half-healed edges of the cut on your chest reopen. You manage to keep quiet about the pain, so the officer leading you away doesn't reconsider his decision.

After an elevator ride, he leads you to a briefing room. Three other humans stand at the end of a large table, one of which is the blood-haired man. He recognizes you as you walk in, his face twisting into an exaggerated frown.

"Why, I thought I told you to fix it before you brought it into my care!"

The officer that led you from the dormitory stands at attention.

"Chancellor, sir, it's an MT unit. MTs do not receive medical treatment for injuries given to them as punishment."

"Really," he says with a slight gasp, "and this broken up thing is supposed to be my personal unit? This will not do."

"Sir-"

"Would you like me to put in a word with your Commander?"

The officer freezes. His eyes go wide as he says, "We'll get it treatment right after this meeting."

The blood haired man—the Chancellor?—removes his hat off his head, and puts it back down again.

"Thank you."

"01987," speaks one of the humans from the Chancellor's side of the room, "take a seat."

Take a seat? At the meeting table? Not once have you ever been asked to do that, but you must comply.

A variety of chairs sit in front of you, all gray and metal like the hallways outside. Tentatively, you put a hand on one, pull it away from the table, and bring yourself to obey the order and sit.

"Unit NH-01987," a new human speaks, "you are being reassigned from your current station in contingent seven hundred and eighty five, for a special task."

He steps back a little, and motions towards the Chancellor.

"Do you know who this man is?"

"The...Chancellor?" you ask, not knowing anything else about that or what it means.

"Correct. This is an important man in the Empire; he makes impressions on the leaders of surrounding nations, and spearheaded your very creation. He is a critical member of our government. For the next few weeks, he's going to survey and check in on many of Niflheim's territories, but due to the hostility some still hold towards the Empire, he stands in need of protection. He has chosen you for this task."

The Chancellor smiles at you, a little too wide.

"You are to keep him from harm's way, defend him, serve him, and use what skills you have mastered to attack those who might assault him. Do you understand?"

You nod your head. "Yes, sir."

The officer opens a folder, sitting on the desk.

"It says here that you're especially proficient in long range skills and using fire arms. Is this true?"

You nod again. "Yes, sir."

He leans over towards the Chancellor, and whispers something in his ear before the Chancellor nods excitedly.

"Yes, I'm sure. This one," he says.

The officer sighs, and picks up the folder to bring it to the human who brought you in.

"Take it to Medical."

You feel eyes on you as you leave the room.

  
******

The Chancellor's dropship is a striking window to the outside world, something you have never experienced before.

Every day, you finish recharging from your spot the Chancellor has so graciously provided you in his quarters. You pull on your armor as he pulls on his clothing, and the two of you walk, arms linked (his suggestion) into whatever strange location awaits you today.

No one ever told you that outside could be so beautiful, so ever-changing. No one ever told you of the sheer variety in places to go, so unlike the brushed metal walls you've lived in up to this point.

Mostly, what you do each day is ride in machines the Chancellor calls 'cars', enter striking buildings, and sit waiting beside your charge while he talks on and on to whoever he's assigned to meet with. It's a little dull, especially compared to the nigh-constant battle training you endured back in the training facilities. Despite that, you're rewarded with wide open windows in the offices the Chancellor talks in that peer down on city streets, and you spend the hours he's not being assassinated studying them, feeling something strange in your chest skip when you imagine yourself being in the midst of it all.

Most of all, your favorite reward is the Chancellor's touch.

A pat on the shoulder, an arm around your torso, your arms linked as you walk and the way he runs his fingers through your hair every morning. It's still so strange, so unfamiliar compared to the old routine of hits and injuries, and you accept each one with gratitude.

Until one night.

One night, the both of you return to the ship tired, but safe. He says nothing to you as he pulls you towards his quarters, and as he puts his hand to the handle of the door, he pauses.

He lifts his head, and looks at you with the same studious expression you saw the first time you met him. The skin by his eyes crinkles like the paper on a trainer's clipboard, and his vision turns piercing as he looks down at you.

You notice, for the first time, the gold of his irises.

His face smooths into a smile, just as you're about to make an inquiry. He removes his hand from his door, and instead grabs yours.

"Come with me," he says, and pats your armored glove.

He takes you all the way across the balcony by the bridge, to a set of doors with small signs of anatomically incorrect humans on them. He pushes open the one that has the blue human, and then once inside the glaring, white room, pulls you into a small stall.

He sits on the oddly shaped chair just inside, and grabs your free hand, bringing it together to meet your other. He laughs, a little giddy, and tells you, "01987, kneel."

It's...an odd request, as he is clearly not the Emperor, but you suppose he's close enough to deserve it. You comply, getting on your knees, perfectly between his spread legs. He brings your hands down to his knees and leaves them there, before getting to work unbuttoning and unzipping his pants.

"01987," he breathes out, "I have a request for you."

Let free from his pants is something you happen to recognize; you have a part like that too, between your legs, but it's never looked like this. It curves slightly upwards, solid and red, with something at the tip glistening a little in the room's lights.

"I need you," the Chancellor says, gripping the base, "to take this in your mouth."

Something roils in your stomach at the thought.

"What...is it?" you ask, finding your voice.

The Chancellor looks surprised for a moment, then laughs.

"This, my dearest, is called a penis. Every so often, it gets hard, and aches, and must be relieved. I'd appreciate it if you'd help me with it."

"Am I supposed to?"

"Why, you're my personal MT. You're to serve me in any way you can, and by doing so, show your allegiance to the Empire. You wouldn't want to commit treason, would you?"

The phrase sends alarms off through your brain; you've seen what is done to those who betray the Empire. It's a worse threat than decommissioning ever was.

You swallow.

"Don't worry, it's not too hard a job. You can do it."

Looking around at the deserted room, looking into the Chancellor's eyes, high above you, you suppose you don't have a choice.

You must comply.

The dark feeling in the pit of your clearly ill-functioning stomach expands as you lean forward, and experimentally put your lips on the tip of the thing.

There's a substance there, some kind of lubricant? You're not sure. You run your tongue over it and lap a small amount up, tasting the smooth, vaguely salty flavor. It's not very pleasant, and you look back towards the Chancellor's face for reassurance, only to find he's closed his eyes. The skin around the substance is salty too, but more so, and with a heady, savory scent, similar almost to when you used to pass the humans' cafeteria on the way to the training hall.

You readjust. You open your mouth wider, and try to take in more of the penis. The Chancellor lets out a small sigh as you swirl your tongue around the underside while just trying to move it out of the way. He threads his hands into your hair, the familiar and comforting touch encouraging you to pull a little more in.

"Yes," he exhales, "you're doing marvelously for your first time."

The texture of the penis has gotten more dynamic the further you move up it, with small folds of skin and veins that are unpleasant to feel with your tongue. Every time you choose trace one, however, you're met with a gasp or a moan from above.

"Yes," he repeats, " _yes_."

The hands in your hair pull you up more, towards the end, and then back down a few inches again. Having your autonomy suddenly taken from you is frightening, and you push against his legs, struggling to pull free from the grip in your hair.

The Chancellor keeps going, sliding you up and down, up and down, picking up the pace each time. Your attempts to pull away mean nothing to him; he doesn't even seem to notice. You're not sure how it happens, but his hands transform from messengers of peace, of calm and a gentleness you've never felt before in your life, to something harsh and desirous, taking more and more from you. You cry out from the pain of having your hair pulled, right as he pulls you all the way to his abdomen, sheathing the whole penis in your mouth. You gasp and choke but can't seem to find any air. He brings you down again, then up one last time before something spills onto your tongue, hot and sticky and thoroughly unpleasant. It runs down your mouth and into your throat, coating everything.

The Chancellor loosens his grip on your hair, and slowly pulls you off him with a pop. Saliva and the awful taste dribbles down the corner of your mouth. Despite years of training and desensitization, you feel yourself wanting to cry.

He trails a hand down from your hair to your cheek, and pats it.

"Oh, dearest," he starts, "you did wonderfully. You're still quite new to this, but fear not: I'll have you a pro at sucking me in no time."

You're able to breathe clearer when you hear the pet name, but down in your stomach there's a sinking feeling.

Without a shadow of a doubt, you know that this isn't the last time you'll be asked to do this for the Chancellor.


End file.
